Reading a book on haiku, the tradition and the lives of masters, has led me to try to record a certain transience and pathos in a few. The following are winter poems.
The park is sunny, windy and cold;
What's that whipped and whirling thing--
An oak leaf or a sparrow?
On a bare black branch, a crow
Hunches against the pale
Yellow sky of sunset.
Thunderstorms break the night;
Lightning strobe-lights the flat bedroom,
Outlining everything in black.
